


The Smell of Sex

by havalava



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff, Watching TV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 08:06:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havalava/pseuds/havalava
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For ohwhattheshit for the JLC Valentine's Day gift exchange. Prompt: Sherlock and John sitting on the couch, watching TV.</p><p>When John discovers that Sherlock can tell when you've been having sex or masturbating by your smell, he gets rather embarrassed. Sherlock helps him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smell of Sex

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ohwhattheshit](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=ohwhattheshit).



The night is cold in London, the kind of cold that seeps into your very being if you stand outside for longer than five seconds. A single soul is outside on Baker Street, hurrying away from a building marked 221. If you looked closely at her face you would see a mixture of frustration and disappointment. She reaches the side of the road just as a cab comes round the corner and relievedly bundles herself inside. Her next stop, in the final hours of February 14, is her boyfriends house to confront him about his affair.

Inside the doors of the building the woman came out of is a most peculiar sight. Someone has obviously tried to get into the spirit of the holiday of love by pinning strings of hearts and cards with sappy messages to the walls. This in itself is not strange, many people decorate for holidays, but next or on nearly all of the adornments are garishly green post-it notes with ridiculing messages on them.

_This is an extremely plebeian holiday. Must you insist on decorating, Mrs. Hudson?_   
_Roses die, violets do to. Murder is interesting, which can't be said for you._   
_Why are people so fixated on this shape? It looks nothing like a real heart._

Inside the door directly to the right can be heard the sound of a movie adaption of some torrid romance novel or other. Inside the door at the top of the stairs can be heard two sets of giggling on top of an action movie. One voice shushes the other before starting up in laughter again.

"Sherlock, we can't giggle. That poor woman's Valentine's Day is probably ruined," says a cable knit jumper clad man sitting with his legs pulled up to his chest on a blueish-grey couch, very obviously not following his own advice.

"Oh she was getting uninterested in him anyway. And they've already had the traditional sex couples have on this day so she's not being jilted that." Sherlock, the man this voice belongs to is sprawled out on the same couch as the other, a dressing gown draped around limbs that seem a bit excessive in length. The first man makes a strangled snorting sound.

"How can you-", he begins before being cut off by Sherlock, who seems to be used to these types of inquiries.

"It is one of the simplest things to tell when someone's done anything of a sexual nature, John. There is a very distinct smell that lingers at their pulse points." This sets off another round of giggling from John before he slows and his eyes grow wide.

"Hold on, so every time I've... I mean you've been able to tell... Everything?" The shorter man's question is met with an amused twinkle in his flatmate's eyes. He squeezes his eyes shut and grimaces.

"Oh God," comes in a groan and he sits there for a few seconds more, then resolutely turns his entire body to face the tv,

"moving away from that, have you been paying attention at all to the film?" This is a question often asked when John drags Sherlock to the couch to educate him on the very important matter of James Bond.

"I hardly need to. Goldfinger's plot is transparent. I've had it figured out since the first 10 minutes," Curiously, the spindly man hasn't moved his eyes from his friend's face and seems to be deliberating something, "why does it bother you that I know when you masturbate?" John had just picked up a mug of tea but is now very earnestly trying not to choke.

"Why? Jesus Sherlock, because it's a bit odd for someone's friend to be aware of every time they have a wank. It's a private thing, especially when they're thinking about-" He stops abruptly and stares with a very determined look on his face at his tea and then the television when the red on his cheeks fades. Sherlock continues watching him for a few moments more, particularly focusing on his eyes. Something changes in the detective's face then, it suddenly looks almost predatory. He stands and moves until he's looming over his shorter friend. Dropping to his knees he places his hands on John's thighs and looks into his astonished face.

"What do you think about when you have your hands on yourself?", Sherlock moves so his mouth is by John's ear, "Do you imagine touching me?" His voice drops on the last two words and John shudders.

"You can you know," the detective murmurs and brushes his nose down John's jawline. John had been sitting stiffly still through all of this, but now seems to thaw and he cautiously (for it is plain in the set of his face that he has some doubt that this is actually happening) turns his head so that their lips slot together. Sherlock responds vigorously and then gone is the slow seduction because now they are fire, greedily consuming what each had been imagining for months.Hands tangle in hair, teeth scrape over necks and collarbones, raging erections are made known against legs, stomaches, each other. Clothes are very quickly deemed the worst possible things that the human race could've come up with and clumsy hands work to unbutton and rip off and cast away.

It is awkward and rushed, as first times often are, and both want do more but aren't sure how far the other is willing to go, but it is right. They fit and it is sublime, and when they come together, with a shout and a moan, they realize this has been how it's supposed to be since John shot a man for Sherlock and then giggled at the crime scene.

After, there is a brief cleanup and they collapse back onto the couch, their limbs so entangled that it isn't apparent at first whose belong to who. A blond head rests in the hollow of a sculpted throat and a slender hand traces pink scar tissue. Neither of them are really paying attention to the movie, though it is still playing.

"I might agree to more of these Bond explosion evenings if they start ending up like this," remarks Sherlock, looking fascinated with the shape of the scar on John's back. A chuckle is slightly muffled by Sherlock's neck.

"It's James Bond." John turns his head slightly so he can see part of the detective's face. The latter sighs and waves his hand dismissively.

"Irrelevant," he says and then places a kiss to John's forehead.

Outside in London it is still very very cold, there is a pluvial feeling in the air. It cannot breach the warmth inside 221b.

**Author's Note:**

> Whoohoo I can't write smut!  
> Thank you for reading! Leave me a comment, I wanna know how I can improve!
> 
> I hope ohwhattheshit enjoys this. I didn't really have them watch tv that much.


End file.
